The Adventure of Philip Anderson
by simplyshelbs16
Summary: Philip Anderson was bored until the chaotic aftermath of Sherrinford gives him an inside look into the hearts of Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper. Now, if only he can help bring them together...
1. She Said What?

Philip Anderson was bored. Nothing of particular excitement had been happening in his life. Whilst he was pouring himself another cup of coffee at the station, a woman stormed in, shouting at Lestrade for some reason or other. Anderson took no interest in it, taking a large sip of coffee, only to spit it out in surprise as he realised the angry woman was, in fact, Molly Hooper. Not one time in all the years he had known her had he ever seen her in a rage. This _was _exciting.

"It's against protocol, Molls!" Greg argued. "We cannot take civilians into a risky situation; his sister has psychosis for cryin' out loud!"

"I don't care! I am not just going to sit here and do nothing! I have been through emotional hell tonight with Sherlock, and I'll be damned if I allow you to force me to sit this out!" Molly's face was red; her now frizzy hair was in a high ponytail, cascading just past her shoulders.

Greg looked at her sympathetically. "Look, I'm sorry, I just can't." He looked over at Philip. "Anderson, you're with me."

Molly laughed in disbelief. "No," she shook her head. "Why does he get to go? There aren't any dead bodies…are there?"

"I was informed that there were casualties at Sherrinford," Greg explained. He noticed the fear in her eyes. "Look, Molls, I'm sure that Sherlock is okay, but we really need to get going."

Her head perked up. "We?" With a nod from Lestrade, Molly followed after them, knowing full well she would have found a way there before he gave in. After all, she did have Anthea's personal number.

* * *

A rescue squad had been sent ahead of them to Musgrave Hall whilst Anderson, Molly, and Greg headed to Sherrinford. This decision did not sit well with Molly, but after finding out that Sherlock was alive, the relief was plain on her face. She figured she could wait just a bit longer to see him. If Anderson didn't know any better, and he really did know better, he'd say that Sherlock and Molly had been in a deeply loving relationship underneath everyone's noses. As much as he'd like that to be the truth, he knew they had been dancing around each other for years.

Sherrinford came into view, and as soon as they landed, they were rushing toward the entrance. Greg's job was to search for Mycroft whilst Anderson and Molly found and examined the bodies. The first bodies they came across were the governor and his wife, both shot, but one appeared to be self-inflicted.

Anderson noticed a video tape titled 'Emotional Context,' and beneath it, Molly's name was written. "Molly," he called out to her. "I think you better come see this."

She looked down at the tape, her brows furrowing. Curiosity getting the better of her, Molly shoved the tape back in and watched as Sherlock went from room to room. She and Anderson gasped audibly when they watched the governor take his own life, both knowing why Sherlock's sister—Eurus—had shot the governor's wife. The next room was a matter of accusation. The three Garridebs had all been dropped into the deep water, inevitably left to drown.

"What in the hell are you two doing?" Greg asked. "That's evidence."

"It is property of the British government," Mycroft spoke up, a shock blanket around his shoulders. "I do not want this tape getting out, but I believe Miss Hooper deserves to see this."

As the footage continued, the coffin puzzle intrigued them all until Molly realised it had been meant for her. A lump rose within her throat as she relived the phone call from earlier, her hand covering her mouth.

"I…I love you," Sherlock had clumsily spoken. Then, a look of clarity came over him so brief that you could have easily missed it. "I love you." The second was more an admission to one's self than to the one you love. Silent tears slid down Molly's face.

Anderson's jaw dropped. "Holy—"

"Hell," Greg looked on in surprise, running a hand through his silver hair.

Nobody said a word as they witnessed Sherlock's breakdown whilst he smashed the coffin to bits in such anguish. Anderson could tell that it physically hurt Molly to watch as she clutched her chest where her heart resided.

"I can't watch anymore," Molly sobbed, "I can't." Despite her protests, she continued to view the footage with the others. The moment she saw Sherlock aim the gun at himself, Molly felt she was going to be sick. She ran right out of the room, only stopping until she was outside in the fresh air.

Anderson followed after her, concerned about her emotional state. When he made it outside, he found her down by the water with her knees pulled in toward her chest. "Molly?"

"I knew something was wrong after that phone call." Molly sniffled wiping her tears with her delicate fingers. "I just—I never would have imagined that he went through such…" she faltered to find a word.

"Torture?" Anderson suggested, sitting down beside her.

Molly considered the word, and then shook her head. "Vivisection. What happened to him tonight…it was vile. And to make matters worse, I forced him to say the words that I so desperately didn't want to say myself."

"He sounded like he meant it," Anderson remarked, hoping it would make light of the situation.

"Does it matter if he did or not?" Molly laughed softly. "I twisted the knife that his sister buried in his heart. Even if he did mean it and wasn't opposed to a relationship, do you really think I made a good case for myself? I've hurt him so much since he returned to London." Her voice was thick with emotion. "So much."

"Anderson, Molls, we're heading to Musgrave," Lestrade informed them, exiting the building with Mycroft. They climbed into the helicopter, everyone ready to meet up with the others—everyone except for Molly. She was beginning to think that coming along was a mistake. After all, she doubted that Sherlock would even want to see her after tonight.

* * *

It was all a blur of chaos when they arrived on the scene. Musgrave Hall was once a grand home, but it was now a simple reminder of the trauma Sherlock Holmes had faced tonight. They had been informed that John Watson was rescued from a well that had been steadily filling with water, intending to drown him. Sherlock's estranged sister was being led out of the house by two officers set to take her back to Sherrinford. And then there was the detective himself, visibly shaken from the events that took place here.

Lestrade was talking with Sherlock all whilst Molly hid behind Anderson, peering around at Sherlock every now and then. Because she hadn't been paying attention where she was going as she followed Anderson around, it struck her they were within hearing distance of Sherlock after they had heard him tell Greg thanks. He had even gotten his name right, which shocked everyone.

"You okay?" John asked his friend.

"I said I'd bring her home. I can't, can I?" Sherlock's voice was quiet, soft.

"Well," John began, "you gave her what she was looking for: context."

Sherlock looked at John. "Is that good?"

"It's not good, it's not bad. It's…" John searched for the right words. "It is what it is."

Anderson looked around at Molly. "Stop hiding and go to him," he encouraged her.

"I probably shouldn't," she tried to reason. "He doesn't want to see me." Molly attempted to leave Sherlock's vicinity, getting out from behind Anderson and trying to reach Greg, but she was stopped before she could get that far.

"Molly." Sherlock Holmes breathed out her name in relief.

With hesitance, Molly turned around to face him, her eyes locked on his. He looked as if he were haunted, plagued with resurfacing memories. "Sherlock." It was the simplest of acknowledgements. There was no getting out of this now, she realised as he approached her in just a few strides.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, surprised to even see her at all.

"I knew something was wrong," she replied simply. "You'd never say those words unless someone's life was on the line, and now I know that life was mine."

Anderson couldn't help but eavesdrop. He wanted it all to work out so badly.

Sherlock ran a hand through his disheveled curls. "Molly, I meant every word."

She hadn't a clue what possessed her to say what came out of her mouth next. "Well, I didn't." Sherlock's face fell. Molly's heart shattered. Why did she just say that? Anderson was wondering the same thing. He waited to see if Molly would tell Sherlock the truth, but instead she walked away, her face twisted in pain.

Anderson muttered to himself. "Do I have to do everything myself?"

* * *

**Author's Note: **I've absolutely no idea where I'm going with this, except I intend it to be fun as hell lol!


	2. Busted

**To my guest reviewers, thank you! I'm not sure if I feel super satisfied with how this chapter turned out, but I hope y'all enjoy anyways!**

* * *

They had been avoiding each other. It had already been two weeks since Molly had last spoken to Sherlock, breaking his heart. She had taken every shift she could get to take her mind off the fact she was an emotional train wreck. For the first couple of days after what was now deemed the 'Sherrinford Incident,' Sherlock had texted and called her numerous times, but Molly couldn't bring herself to answer him. As a last resort, he had even tried to visit at her flat, but instead of welcoming him inside, she remained as quiet as possible until he left. He had given up on contacting her after that.

After what felt like hours spent sorting through the stacks of paperwork in her office, Anderson rushed in. "This has gone on long enough."

Molly's face twisted in confusion. "What has?"

"This!" Anderson gestured to her. "You avoiding Sherlock. What happened? Why did you lie to him?"

With a heavy sigh, Molly replied, "I don't really know. It's rather complicated."

"Well, then un-complicate it," he told her. "I know, you're probably wondering why I even care, but—"

Molly giggled. "This wouldn't have anything to do with your theory on how Sherlock survived, would it?" Anderson made a face at her. "Look, it's sweet that you care, really. It all comes down to the fact that what I once thought would never happen is now happening, and it scares the hell out of me." Molly took a steadying breath. "I just—I'm not ready. I thought I was and I wasn't." She couldn't understand why she was confiding in, of all people, Philip Anderson.

Just then, Stamford poked his head through the doorway. "Molly, could you come take a quick look at something for me?"

She nodded, giving Anderson a sad smile as she left.

"Guess I'll have to do it the hard way, then," he muttered under his breath, spotting Molly's cellphone on her desk. Taking it in his hands, he opened up to the lock screen. A four digit pin was needed to gain access. "It could be her birthday…" he mused. "No, wait…Sherlock's birthday." He typed in 0601 which then unlocked the device. It was time to send a message.

* * *

"Wasn't this originally on the mantle?" John asked, prying the knife out of the wall. He studied his friend who had remained in his chair, unmoving. "Sherlock?"

"Hm?" he sounded. Zeroing in on the knife, he realised what John must have asked him. "Oh, it was."

"Right," John replied. "And, uh, maybe I should get Mrs. Hudson to dust in here; I know she'd like to."

"If she'd like," Sherlock sighed.

This had gone on long enough. Sherlock definitely hadn't been himself lately. It was common knowledge that Molly harbored feelings for him, so why did he believe such an obvious lie?

"Alright, Sherlock, talk to me." John pulled up his chair. When Sherlock didn't answer, he attempted a different approach. "Molly does love you."

Sherlock gave in. "You don't think I know that?"

"Then why—"

He ran his hands angrily through his curls. "John, it's obvious she believes me unworthy of her heart. This is a woman that obviously wishes she didn't feel anything for me."

"Don't do that," John warned him. "Do not try to disconnect yourself from Molly by referring to her as 'this woman.'" If Sherlock was going to make any headway, he needed to get out of this state of mind. "For what it's worth, there is no way in hell that Molly finds you unworthy."

Sherlock scoffed. "Yes, well, she—" His mobile rang and he picked it up see who was bothering him now. His eyes lit up. "—She texted."

John's eyebrows shot up.

**Sherlock, please come by the lab so we can talk. –Molly**

* * *

Anderson made sure to delete the text after sending it. Hopefully being in the same room wouldn't kill them. When Molly did return to her office, she asked Anderson if he'd like to help run some tests on the current murder victim in the morgue. He agreed in hopes of seeing what would transpire when Sherlock arrived. They had only been in the lab for fifteen minutes when the detective strolled through the doors, a small paper bag in hand.

"Sherlock," Molly exclaimed with surprise. Her eyes shifted to the bag he carried. "What's that?"

"Cinnamon apple scones; your favourite," he smiled. "I thought you might need some sustenance."

Molly's heart was in a state, beating rapidly in her chest. He seemed cheerful despite everything, which only left her wondering why he suddenly decided to see her at work where she really couldn't run from him. "That's…very thoughtful of you," she smiled. "Thank you."

Sherlock looked at her as if she was his favourite person in the whole world. And truth be told, she was. "You wanted to talk, so here I am. I am here to listen."

She furrowed her brows in confusion. "I never—"

Anderson coughed…loudly. It almost sounded like he said "talk to him."

Sherlock turned toward him, a look of annoyance on his face. Anderson took the cue to leave the lab, but he remained just outside the open door.

"You love me," Sherlock stated simply.

Molly's eyes widened. "What?" He clearly didn't believe the lie that escaped her lips two weeks ago.

Taking her hands in his, Sherlock looked into her warm brown eyes. "I know you lied to me, Molly, but what I don't know is why."

Molly shook her head. "I don't understand. If you knew I lied to you, then why did it hurt you if you knew the truth?"

He sighed. "It wasn't what you lied about, Molly; it was the fact that you lied at all." Sherlock released her hands. "I know I haven't been the easiest person to be friends with; I know I've hurt you in the past, but the one thing I take pride in is that I have never lied to you."

Molly felt tears welling up in her eyes. "I'm sorry that I lied. Sherlock, I just—I love you…but I don't want to."

Her words, though truthful, cut him like a dull knife. Sherlock felt he knew exactly why. "Because I'm unworthy."

"What? No! That's not—" Molly tried to get a grip on the situation. "I'm scared, Sherlock. I was content loving you from afar because I never expected you to return my affections. Now that I have it within my reach, it scares the hell out of me. I trust you with my life, but I can't trust you with my heart."

It all made sense to him. Sherlock had to admit that he had never given her reason to trust him with something as precious as her heart. She knew he would always protect her life…but in what ways could he protect her heart? He knew nothing of romantic entanglements. It was easy to play along with Janine, but this was so much different. This was a love that ran so deep, they could drown in it. The seriousness of the situation dawned on him.

"I understand," he spoke softly.

Molly perked up just a bit. "You do?"

Sherlock nodded. He took one of her hands in both of his, and pressed his lips softly against the back of it. Molly nearly forgot how to breathe. How could such a simple kiss to the hand wreck her like that? Then there was what he told her as he lifted his head to meet her eyes. "I hope I can gain your trust, Molly. I won't be giving up so easily."

Her eyes followed him as he left the room, her jaw dropping ever so slightly.

Anderson was just as shocked as she was. He had successfully cleared the hallway, nearly making a clean getaway until Sherlock's voice halted him. "Not so fast, Philip."

Attempting to play it cool, Anderson smiled. "Sherlock. What can I do for you?"

"You texted me from Molly's phone," he stated. "Why do you feel the need to interfere in our lives?"

Anderson paled. "Despite our differences in the past, I would actually like to see you happy for once." He paused to consider his words. "And I'd like to see Molly happy too. Preferably, I'd like to see the both of you happy…together."

Sherlock looked unamused. "Well, I appreciate your…help. It did get me this far, but for the sake of what's left of my sanity, stay out of it." He breezed right past him, but stopped short, turning to face him once more. "And stop pushing Molly into talking to me; I don't want her to feel obligated to do so. She needs time." As he stalked off, he added, "I think I do too."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Will Sherlock make Anderson stay out of it? Does Anderson have more than a few cards up his sleeve? We'll just have to see...


	3. Don't You Remember?

**this chapter focuses more on Sherlock and Molly's progress as a result of Anderson's meddling, though he is present to enjoy the show :p**

* * *

Greg Lestrade had been minding his own business. It was a quiet day at the precinct—in fact, it had been quiet for the past few days. It was strange in all honesty. That's how Greg knew the peace and quiet wouldn't be lasting for much longer. His prediction proved to be correct when Philip Anderson rushed into his office.

"Three words," Anderson told him, upping the suspense. "Sherlock. And. Molly."

Whatever Greg was expecting, it wasn't that. He had to admit, he was intrigued. "I'm listening…"

Philip took the time to explain all that had happened thus far, making sure to not leave out one detail. He seemed as fanatical about Sherlock and Molly's love life as he was about his theories of Sherlock's faked death. It was a bit scary, but entertaining as hell.

"So, that's why I need you to find a case that would have them working together," Anderson explained. "It can't just be any case, though; it has to be a really good one. Maybe something that gives an air of nostalgia."

Greg sighed. "I hate to tell you this, mate, but it's been dead around here for days. Not a murder or kidnapping in sight." Of course, he wouldn't wish for these crimes to be happening, but at this point, he wished _something_ would happen. Then the phone rang.

He listened to the voice on the other end intently. Whatever it was, it looked promising by the look on the detective inspector's face. "Bollocks!" Lestrade exclaimed, hanging up the phone. "There is absolutely no way a man just appears out of thin air! There's one missing person, one valuable book, and no suspect other than the man who seemingly walks through walls. It's nearly a dead end case."

Anderson's eyes went wide with curiosity. "But, it's the perfect case for Sherlock and Molly!" He was ecstatic.

"Bit of a mouthful, that," Greg laughed. "Mollock?"

Anderson shook his head vehemently. "Doesn't roll off the tongue."

It was then that Greg and Anderson gave each other knowing looks, speaking in unison. "Sherlolly."

* * *

At the Watson residence, Sherlock was keeping an eye on Rosie whilst John tossed a lunch together to bring with him to work at the surgery. Rosie would be brought by her godfather to Mrs. Hudson for the day, seeing as Greg had called moments ago with a case. Much to Sherlock's chagrin, he'd have to be going this one alone. His phone buzzed, alerting him that there was a text. The hint of a smile appeared on his face as he realised it was from Molly.

**I hope you're not still upset with me.**

Sherlock could never stay upset at her—it was a waste of time to dwell on the past.

**Greg said he had a really good case for you…I'm on my way to the scene now, so I guess I'll see you there :)**

"John, I'm going to go ahead and take Rosie to Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock told him.

John turned in confusion. "What's the rush?"

Only one word from Sherlock, and John understood. "Molly."

* * *

The chill in the air cut through the layers Molly wore, making her thankful that they need only to remain inside. She and Anderson were tagging along in case the missing person turned up dead. Whilst they waited for Greg's go-ahead, Molly sent off a couple of texts to Sherlock, giving him a fair warning that they'd be working together. She hadn't a clue why Greg needed both her and Anderson, but she supposed two forensics members were better than one. It wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't looked so eager every time he looked at her.

"He's gone barmy," she muttered to herself.

Apparently her remark had been picked up by someone else. "Anderson's always been barmy." Sherlock's smooth baritone caused a fluttery feeling in her stomach. He took in her appearance, wanting to note how lovely she looked today, but that wasn't what ended up coming out of his mouth. "You look well rested today." Sherlock was internally berating himself for such a mediocre remark. _Well rested? Really?_

Molly, being used to his strange remarks, took it in stride. "I, um—thank you?" She turned away from Sherlock for a moment, noticing Anderson's eyes on them. If he had his way, there would be a bucket of popcorn in his hands as he watched the not-so-fascinating mess of a love story unfold before him. The imagery made her laugh harder than it should have.

Sherlock's face was pinched in confusion. "What's so funny?" She was definitely laughing at him.

"N—nothing," Molly tried to assure him, unable to keep her giggling at bay. She was thankful for Greg's nod that let them know they were free to investigate the room.

Every wall except for where the door resided was covered with bookcases. They all appeared to be built-in. Whilst Sherlock was reviewing the security footage that she saw earlier, Molly noticed a feature of interest on the far side of the wall. The middle bookcase was the only one that wasn't built in to the wall. It was bolted, but not part of the wall itself.

"Sherlock? Come here." Molly was searching the shelves, her index finger skimming over the spines.

Noticing her focus on the shelf, he, too, realised the oddity of the bookcase. "Someone's been watching too much telly," he joked. "You can't seriously believe this is what it appears…"

Molly pulled on a thick volume of 'The Fall of the Roman Empire,' and the bookcase swung open.

"…to be," Sherlock finished. It was too obvious.

_"You always want everything to be so clever,"_ Moriarty's voice resounded in his mind palace.

Molly smiled smugly at him, but her eyes were playful. "Hand me a torch."

Sherlock complied, grabbing one for himself as well. Greg and Anderson followed behind through the secret passage. It appeared to be some sort of storage room, and the dust was so thick, Molly had sneezed several times. She had to admit, she was having loads of fun. This case almost reminded her of the first one she went out with Sherlock to solve—the man on the train who happened to be connected to the impending terror strike on London. There was no stopping the memory that was brought to the surface…

_ "Moriarty slipped up, he made a mistake." Though Sherlock's voice was soft, the intensity in his eyes burned through. Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me was the one person that mattered the most."_

It was those words that struck a chord within her. Ever since that day, Molly had known Sherlock's heart completely. She knew that he loved her, that it was more than friendship, but she hadn't been ready to admit it. That wistful smile of his was one she would never forget. It broke her heart to know she was breaking his, and it broke her still. She realised she was hurting him all over again. Surely she could trust him with her heart…right? Hadn't he proven that already by letting her go with only a kiss on the cheek?

Molly was brought out of her memories by the stench of blood that soon hit their noses. Shining the torchlight upon the cold, cement floor, Sherlock used it to follow the trail of blood.

"Make sure not to slip," he told them. Rounding the corner, he found the victim. Someone was reported to be missing, but Sherlock hadn't a clue who exactly it was. Before him was a man that he had met only once when he was let off the hook for ridding the world of Magnussen. This was a government matter. "Mycroft won't be happy about this."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Sherlolly was coined by Greg and Anderson haha! I wanted to bring in some Empty Hearse nostalgia, cause how could I not? Molly's making progress the more she spends time with Sherlock! She's finally begun to realize that Sherlock had already once proven he could be trusted with her heart...


	4. Pulling Strings

Mycroft was beyond agitated. Due to the seriousness of the situation, investigating the death of Oliver Hastings would require legwork. The eldest Holmes despised anything that forced him to leave the security of his office. That is why he found himself at New Scotland Yard in search of his little brother. Upon finding him in Greg Lestrade's office, Mycroft set out to pull him aside—that is, until Anderson stopped him.

"Mister Holmes, could I have a quick word with you?" Anderson asked him.

"I do not have time for my brother's little fan club today," Mycroft sighed. "But what is it?"

"I would just like to suggest that if Sherlock needs to go undercover for this case, he should have a partner…in crime solving, of course!" Anderson noted that the elder Holmes was getting annoyed. "What I mean is that Molly Hooper would be a great candidate to consider for undercover work with your brother, seeing as John has a daughter to take care of."

Just for a moment, Mycroft's face softened. He knew how hard it had been for Sherlock, coming to terms with the fact that he had, indeed, fallen in love with Miss Hooper. Molly appeared to be having a difficult time as well, too afraid to step over the edge that would allow herself to fall completely. It seemed that Philip Anderson was attempting to play matchmaker. _And rightly so_, he thought.

"I'll consider it." With that, Mycroft stormed right into Greg's office.

Sherlock turned to face his brother, knowing full-well the reason for his being there. "Let me guess? I'm to go undercover at some dinner party where I will have to bring a plus one and you are going to suggest I take Molly, correct?"

Mycroft had to admit, his brother was quite good. "Well…yes, but how did you figure Miss Hooper into the equation?"

"Saw you talking to Anderson," he replied. "He's been trying to help, I suppose, but it is getting rather tedious." Sherlock had secretly developed a sort of soft spot for Anderson, but he would never admit it—not even on his death bed would he dare to. "When is this dinner party?"

"In three days," Mycroft answered. "You and Miss Hooper will be on the list as William and Lyla Lexington."

"Nice alliteration," Sherlock remarked.

Mycroft made a face as if to tell him to allow him to finish. "Married for three years, no children—yet, and are patrons of the fine arts."

"Will there be dancing?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft nodded. Oh yes, this would be delightful.

* * *

"Will you marry me?"

Those were the first words she heard upon entering the lab the next morning.

"Pardon?" Molly thought he had definitely lost it this time.

Sherlock chuckled, hopping off his usual lab table. "We need to be married for an undercover operation. Are you in?"

Her stomach did flips as her heart pounded furiously in her chest. "I don't know, Sherlock…"

He sighed dejectedly. "Come now, Molly, it's only for a case. Just allow a couple of well-timed snogs, and we'll be right as rain."

"I just don't think it's a good idea; I'm still sorting through all this mess." Molly was afraid she wouldn't allow herself time to heal if she had the chance to kiss him. There would be no going back, and the last thing she wanted was to give herself to him with a battered heart.

"I understand," he told her. "I suppose the rumour mill will have a field day with this." Sherlock noticed he had piqued Molly's curiosity. "John could make a lovely wife I suppose."

Molly snorted, unable to get the image out of her head.

"We could just dab on a bit of makeup, maybe see if they make gowns for his build," Sherlock continued.

"Okay, okay!" Molly laughed. "I'll go…just…stop giving me these visuals!"

Sherlock beamed. "That's my girl!" He kissed her cheek so quickly she didn't have time to react. "I'll have your gown sent to you this afternoon, and I will pick you up tomorrow night."

As he swept out the door, his coat billowing behind him, Molly could only shake her head in disbelief. What in the world was she going to do with that man?

* * *

Anderson, having overheard the exchange by accident for once, was overjoyed. He was glad that he brought up Molly in consideration for undercover work. He could only theorise, but Anderson believed that Mycroft wanted to see them end up together just as badly, if not more. He had to update Greg on the progress of Operation Sherlolly. Things were going much more smoothly than before. It was a shame he'd never get into that dinner party…unless…

* * *

**Author's Note: **Y'all know Anderson is gonna try to crash that dinner party haha! This chapter is shorter than the last three, but I think I'll need to spend almost a whole chapter on the dinner party, so I'm saving that for chapter 5! I probably won't post again until after Christmas, so I hope you have a Merry Christmas, y'all! Or Happy Hanukkah! Just...Happy Holidays!


	5. There's No Good in Goodbye

When Anthea caught on to what Philip Anderson was trying to pull, she wanted a part in his game. Thankfully, Mycroft had tasked her with picking up the evening gown Molly would be wearing. It had to be sexy, but simple. As Coco Chanel once said, "Elegance is refusal." Just as both Holmes brothers instructed, she had the dress sent out to Molly that afternoon. She wished she could see the look on Sherlock's face when he saw Molly in that dress.

"Anthea?" Mycroft called to her as he stepped out of his office. "Has the gown been sent to Miss Hooper?"

"Yes sir, everything is done as you asked," Anthea informed him.

Mycroft grumbled something unintelligible.

"What was that sir?"

"Nothing," he smiled demurely. "I just hope my brother and Miss Hooper can work something out. He has been alone much too long."

"If I may speak out of turn, sir, I think you have too," she told him. It wasn't much, but maybe it was enough for him to see he had her love.

Mycroft appeared to be taken aback by her remark—not in horror, but genuine surprise. Perhaps she was right.

* * *

Molly had never worn anything so extravagant in her life. Every which way she turned in the mirror, the fact remained that it was as if this gown had been specifically tailored to her measurements. And if that were true, how exactly did Sherlock know her measurements? Surely somebody had to know in order for this gown to fit her like a glove. He probably figured it out when she wore that dress to the Christmas party at his flat all those years ago.

The gown was simple, all black. It had an off the shoulder neckline with shoulder strap accents, and a sweetheart bust with padded cups. The material hugged her curves, cascading all the way down to her ankles. If it hadn't been for the strappy silver heels, the dress would have been dragging the floor considering her short stature. There was high side-slit exposing her left leg, giving off a sexy, but sophisticated look. Molly had her hair swept up in a chignon bun, loose tendrils framing her face. Her eyes were done up with eyeliner on the top and bottom of her eyelids, and winged from the corner of her eyes. Her lips were stained with wine coloured lipstick that gave her look the pop of colour it needed.

Startled from her thoughts by a knock on her door, Molly took a deep breath. She slipped on the lacy black bell sleeve shrug over her shoulders and made her way to the door. To say she was nervous about tonight was an understatement. Fake married to Sherlock? The thought made her laugh in disbelief. It sounded like a storyline in one of Anderson's dreams. Okay, maybe her dreams too, but that was aside from the point.

She answered the door to find Sherlock down on one knee, a ring sparkling from within a velvet box. It was golden and gorgeous, a blood red ruby cut into the shape of a heart in its center with two small, rounded diamonds on either side of it. Beside it was a matching wedding band—an endless circle of the utmost significance. "Molly Hooper." He breathed out her name as if she had stolen the breath from his lungs. "You are radiant. I shall perish if you reject my proposal."

"A bit dramatic, that," Molly remarked, clearly enjoying Sherlock's theatrical approach.

"It is only the truth," he replied, desperately wishing for her to see his heart the way she once did.

Molly nodded her head, a smile on her face. "Then I accept your proposal, Mister Holmes. I couldn't very well be happy in a world without you." And that was her truth. Could he see that she meant it? But still, she wondered, was the trust she needed there? She certainly felt safe with him, but did she feel safe _with_ him?

Sherlock stood, revealing to be dressed as dapper as a Victorian gentleman, complete with a brocade waistcoat, a pocket watch tucked into it. He had tamed his unruly curls, now slicked back in such a distinguished way. He gently slid the rings on her finger, surprising her when they fit perfectly. It was as if they were made for her…just like the gown she wore. Brown eyes looked into cerulean ones, searching for truth and answers. His eyes darted to her lips, making him yearn for the chance to kiss her. If all went well, perhaps she'd allow him to do so.

"We should go," he told her, offering his arm. One of Mycroft's hired drivers had been waiting for them in one of the ever-so-inconspicuous black cars. Sherlock opened the door for her, following right behind as she climbed in.

Molly was silent, unsure of what to say, let alone if she should say anything at all. It wasn't awkward, but it wasn't all too comfortable either. She blamed it all on her nerves. Sherlock's voice cut through her inner turmoil, but she hadn't heard what he said. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I asked if you were alright," Sherlock told her. "You look as if you've become ill." He was berating himself for having dragged her into this. It was crossing a very fragile line. They loved each other, but she wasn't ready to give her heart to him—at least not completely. He feared that this would halt whatever progress they had made, if any.

"I'll be fine," she assured him. "Just a couple of well-timed snogs, right?"

So, _that's_ what had her so nervous. He took her hand in his. "Molly, we don't have to. Not every married couple expresses PDA. We're convincing enough with our chemistry." His eyes met hers intensely. "I would never make you do anything you didn't want to do."

The relief was now plain on her face; nothing to worry about now. She could focus on enjoying her night, dancing with Sherlock and catching a murderer. What could be better?

In the front seat, the driver smirked in satisfaction. He had no doubt those two would find a way through the rubble. Nobody ever paid attention to the driver—a fact that comforted him. If he was found out, however, Mycroft Holmes would have his head for sure. Philip Anderson blanched at the thought.

* * *

The manor of Sir Archibald Blackwood was grand, of course. Hundreds of people were in attendance, mingling as they arrived. When Sherlock led Molly through the doors after giving their false names to the guard, she admired the Baroque architecture. She could feel Sherlock squeezing her hand affectionately as they wove their way through the crowd. They were headed to the ballroom—a perfect place to keep an eye out for suspicious activity. Archibald was a suspect, but Sherlock did not believe the man capable of such an act, though he wouldn't put it past him to at least puppeteer the entire thing. Speaking of which…

"Mister and Mrs. Lexington!" Archibald greeted them with enthusiasm, clapping his hands together. "A pleasure to finally meet you both! Mycroft Holmes speaks very highly of you!"

"How surprising," Sherlock remarked flatly. A sharp jab from Molly, and he got his act together.

"He means to say it is a pleasure to finally meet you as well, Mister Blackwood," Molly smiled. "I admire your choice in architecture—you have a lovely home."

"Why, Miss Lexington, would you care for a tour?" An awkward silence ensued. "That is, if your husband won't mind," he added quickly.

"Just a quick one," Sherlock told him sharply.

Molly turned to him, her eyes meeting his. "I promise we'll have plenty of time to dance." She leaned up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek, surprising him.

"Be careful," he whispered in her ear. "Now giggle as if I've said something naughty."

Molly did just that, her cheeks even flushing from the notion. She then went along with Blackwood as he gestured to the high ceilings. Sherlock had to remember to breathe. He knew Molly could take care of herself, but it didn't stop him from worrying over her safety. Though it may not look like it, Molly was a damn good fighter. No one would ever see her coming.

He moved on through the corridors until finally arriving at the ballroom. Already, so many couples were dancing to the music performed by the live orchestra. It was like a scene ripped right out of a fairytale. He scanned the room, looking for anyone who stood out. There, high above on the balcony overlooking the room was a man of average height, a top hat covering his features.

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. He carefully climbed the stairs that led up to the balcony, stopping in front of the man, removing the hat from his head. "Anderson, you are going to blow our cover!" he quietly berated him. "What were you thinking!?"

"I wasn't going to interact with you, promise," he assured him. "You're making a scene by speaking to me at all."

"Look, this isn't time for you to play matchmaker. This is very serious business I'm dealing with," Sherlock argued.

Just then a shout reverberated through the open doors behind them that led to a darkened hallway. Sherlock and Anderson looked at each other in shock. "Molly," they spoke in unison. Before they had a chance to reach the door, Molly came storming through, her hair and dress slightly askew.

"Blackwood isn't a murderer," she panted. "Just a bloody dirty old man!"

Sherlock's blood boiled. "Did he touch you!?" he demanded. "Did he harm you in any way!?"

"Started pulling on the top of my dress, but I took care of it. He'll be in pain for some time," Molly informed him. "I'm fine, honest." She turned to Anderson, his mustache and beard bushier than ever. "Why's he here?"

"Molly, meet our driver," Sherlock grimaced.

"How did you—" Anderson spluttered.

"You, stay inconspicuous," he ordered Philip. He then turned to Molly, offering her his arm. "Shall we have a dance, darling?"

"We shall," she smiled, taking his arm and letting him lead her down to the ballroom. He intertwined one hand with hers, placing his other on her waist. Molly followed his lead as they waltzed through the room.

"Are you truly alright?" Sherlock asked, his tone gentle.

"I am, I promise you," she replied. "We need to be careful now—we can't slip up and use our real names."

"Well, technically—"

"Yes, I know, you get to use your actual first name, _William_, but I don't," Molly pointed out.

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the snark in her tone when she spoke his name. He spun her around, re-connecting their interlocked fingers when she faced him again. His heart ached despite their closeness, wishing they could just be together—that it didn't have to be so difficult. He lowered his head so that his lips were near her ear, the warmth of his breath sending a flutter in her stomach. "Molly," he whispered. "What can I do?"

"About what?" she spoke softly, finding it hard to breathe with him so close.

"How can I prove to you that you can trust me?" he asked. "I would never intend to hurt you. I know I have in the past, but I never intended to, though I know it's not an excuse." Sherlock traced the side of her jawline with the tip of his nose. "I ache for you, darling. I will do anything and everything to fix what I've broken. Tell me what you need."

Her brown eyes were filling with tears that she fought from releasing. "Sherlock," she spoke in a whisper, her voice breaking. Molly wasn't all that sure it was an issue of trust anymore. Somewhere, deep down, she knew there was more to it, but what? "I wish I knew—believe me, I'm just as lost as you are." She let out a shaky breath. "I want to be with you more than anything," she admitted, "but every time I feel I'm ready, there's a voice telling me that it's too dangerous, and I just…don't."

He closed his eyes at her admission, hating how much trouble he was causing her. It pained him to know she was so conflicted. "Everything in you is warning you not to make that leap," Sherlock realised. "Because deep down inside, we both know the truth." He straightened up, meeting her eyes with his.

"And what truth is that?" Molly asked, keeping a grip on him though they had stopped dancing.

"Regardless of how we feel, I'm no good for you," Sherlock told her. He stopped her before she could argue this point. "I know you don't think that of me, Molly, but it's the truth. The sooner we accept it, the better off we'll be."

Just like telling a child they can't have a biscuit, making them want it all the more, Sherlock basically telling Molly she shouldn't love him made her love him all the more. "No," she told him. "I can't accept that."

"We need to be discreet, _Lyla_," he hushed his voice, placing emphasis on her fake name.

"William," she spoke firmly, her eyes keeping a hold of his, her gaze intense. "Kiss me." Molly hadn't a clue what she was doing—everything in her head was warning her not to do this, that it would only break her heart, but she no longer cared.

Sherlock looked at her for a moment, his brows knit together. It happened so fast. His lips were on hers, softly sliding against her own. He lowered his hand to the small of her back, pressing her closer against him, hearing her hum pleasurably at the contact. He felt her tears, finally falling from her eyes—or were they his? He could no longer tell. This was far from a joyful kiss. It felt bittersweet and heartbreaking as if they were saying goodbye.

Why were they even here at this party? The most suspicious people here were them and Anderson. Blackwood was more likely to be the victim than the murderer. Sherlock shook the thoughts from his head as he deepened their kiss, his tongue now dancing with hers. The saltiness of their tears remained even as he tasted her mouth. God, it was so explosive, the blood in his veins electrifying with every second the kiss went on. Explosive. He suddenly pulled away as a thought dawned on him.

"What?" Molly asked, clearly out of breath, her lips deliciously swollen. "What is it?" She looked around the room and back at him. "You've figured it out, haven't you?"

"We need to go back upstairs—Blackwood is still there," Sherlock told her. He took her hand and flew up the stairs with her. Anderson followed the two of them in case backup was needed. "He's the intended victim, not the murderer." As much as he was pissed at him for what he tried with Molly, he was still going to save the bastard. He pounded furiously at the door Molly pointed at.

"What is all this incessant noise, Mister Lexington?" Blackwood asked. He took a look at Anderson. "And who's this mangy fellow?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, and I believe you are the next victim on our murderer's kill list," he informed him. "Get out of this corridor; get your guests to leave—NOW."

Blackwood did as he was told without question.

"Uh, we're still in the corridor," Anderson pointed out. "Are we about to die?"

"Sherlock, honestly, what's going on here?" Molly asked.

"Something's not right here," he told them as he searched the area. "It has to be here."

"What has to be here!?" Anderson and Molly shouted in unison.

The beeping began, leading Sherlock to the source. It was a bomb. Only forty-five seconds left.

"Balcony," Molly told them. They ran down the corridor to the balcony that led outside. Below them was a massive pool, and before Anderson could object, he was heading over the railing with them as the bomb went off. They made quite a splash in the pool, water stinging their eyes.

"A bit James Bond, that," Anderson remarked, feeling a bit woozy.

Molly looked at Sherlock. "I think he's going to faint."

Anderson had to admit he wasn't cut out for this kind of action, blacking out shortly after. They dragged him out of the pool, settling him in the back of the car whilst they took the front seats. Sherlock drove Philip home first who eventually woke just before they arrived at his flat. The drive back to Molly's flat was met with silence. What happened back there, the searing kiss that they shared—it had been too much, and it was all her fault. Sherlock gave her the control of whether they kissed or not, but instead of doing it as their false identities, she made it personal. There was no way their first real kiss was going to be anything but.

"I shouldn't have kissed you," Sherlock told her when they walked up to her flat. "You only told me to as an act of rebellion—because I told you I was no good for you." He sighed. "I knew that, but I did it anyways. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she told him. "The jumping into the pool thing was fun, though, huh?" Molly attempted to lighten the mood.

A short, quiet laugh escaped him. "Yeah," he agreed. "It was." Sherlock brought her hand to his lips, just barely pressing them to her knuckles. "Goodnight, Molly Hooper."

She could feel her heart cracking further. He said goodnight, but why did it feel like goodbye?

* * *

**Author's Note:** Don't fret, it's not over yet! This chapter took me a while to crank out between posting other fics and rewriting this over and over again. I hope it was well worth the wait, and that y'all will stick around for what's to come in chapter 6! I promise you won't be disappointed.


	6. Fear and Desire

**This chapter is really long, but in my opinion, soooo worth it.**

* * *

When Sherlock returned to his flat, he felt beyond exhausted. Physically, emotionally, even mentally. He dropped down into his chair, burying his face in his hands. Not only did they not find any clue as to who the murderer was, but he was pretty sure that after this case, whatever he and Molly did have was over. His heart ached at the thought. This was why he didn't do sentiment—not because it was distracting or useless, but because it was always nothing but pain. Mycroft's wise words rang in his head.

_"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."_

All he ever wanted was for Molly to be happy. Granted, he wished it would be him who brought her that happiness, but obviously, that wasn't the case. Misery is what he brought her. It was killing the light inside of her. He kept telling himself it was for the best, trying to believe that it was. Sherlock removed his pistol from its hiding place and shot at the smiley face painted on the wall. Once, twice, three times. If three kisses suggests romantic attachment, then what, pray tell, did three gunshots suggest?

"Sherlock Holmes, are you defacing my wall again?" Mrs. Hudson reprimanded him when she approached the doorway in her dressing gown.

He smiled wryly at her. "Habit," he told her. Upon noticing how tired his landlady looked, he sighed. "I'll try to keep it down."

She smiled as a silent thank you before leaving, closing the door behind her. Sherlock never slept whilst on a case, but he was beginning to think he should make an exception this time. He made his way to his bedroom, shedding his clothes, only putting on a pair of pyjama pants. He felt dead on his feet, but his mind was restless. Instead of sleeping, he attempted to delve into his mind palace. It was the one place where he felt he could safely lose himself in.

But control was beyond him. In his mind, he was walking through a long corridor full of doors to locked away information. Rather than the one door, there were now two doors labeled with Molly's name. That was new. One looked welcoming, warm, even. The other was cracked and splintered, and painted black. It was no mystery which door he chose, needing a little sunshine on this gloomy night.

He walked through the sunshine yellow door, only to find that it was the complete opposite within it. The room was a lie. That would mean the other one had to be what he was looking for. Sherlock turned to leave, but the door slammed shut, locking from the outside. He was trapped. Cries sounded from upstairs—obviously Molly's—and he ran right up to find her eyes puffy and her face red from all the tears she was shedding.

Carefully, he approached her, not wanting to startle her. "What's wrong?" he spoke softly. She ignored him. "Molly, tell me." She finally looked up at him, her heartache written all over her face.

"You!" she cried. "You're what's wrong!" Her sadness turned to anger all too quickly. "You've led me on for your own gain, you've said such horrible, cruel things, and you hide the truth not only from me, but from yourself!" She jabbed her finger at him with each accusation. "What makes you think you are worth my time? Why do you keep coming back!?" Molly's face twisted in such anger, it was unrecognizable. "You. Don't. Deserve. Me."

Sherlock was now backed up against a wall. He was visibly shaken. "M-Molly wouldn't say these things," he attempted to argue.

"Oh, but she thinks them." In a split second, it was no longer Molly, but himself staring back at him. His own voice echoed throughout the room. "And so do you." He paused for a moment. "Tell me…how could Molly Hooper ever love a man who doesn't even like himself?"

Sherlock's face fell. His counterpart grinned in delight.

"I want you to say it," the figment told him. "Admit it already." He picked up what looked to be a small, handheld looking glass, and shattered it against the wall. "Come on! We both know you're thinking it!"

"I…," Sherlock began, his voice shaky. "I hate myself."

"Louder."

"I hate myself," Sherlock repeated at a higher volume.

"Sorry, can't hear you—one more time?"

"I hate myself!" he shouted. "I hate myself for hurting Molly—for hurting everyone I care about! I am poison. I ruin everything I touch. If I touch her, I will love her to ruins!" Knocking—someone was knocking frantically at the door he had entered this hell through. Sherlock ran toward it, waking up when he turned the knob.

The knocks—they were real. Someone was at his door.

* * *

Nightmares plagued Molly's mind. Tossing and turning in her sleep, Molly cried out Sherlock's name. The more she tried to reach out for him, the further away he got. The scene changed to Sherrinford where Sherlock was being tortured through all kinds of body horror imaginable. She could see everything from the other side of the glass. Her throat was raw from screaming, nearly drowning out the voice…Eurus Holmes's voice.

"Now, now, Molly, you need to calm yourself," she told her. "You know what you have to do. Only you can stop this."

Tears poured down her cheeks. "I—I can't!"

"Why not?" demanded Eurus.

"Because I'm scared!" shouted Molly.

"Of what?"

Molly didn't answer.

Eurus sighed. "Of what, Molly? Is what you fear much worse than what Sherlock is going through? Perhaps I chose the wrong kind of torture."

Through the glass, the scene changed to the phone call, but with one major difference. This time she did not pick up and the telly turned to static. Sherlock's anguished cries over her death shattered her. What would she do with such a splintered heart?

"I'm waiting, Molly. Be a brave girl, now," Eurus coerced her.

Sherlock was falling to a million pieces right in front of her, his pain so unbearable, he reached out for the pistol that fell to the floor amongst the smashed up bits of the coffin.

"No!" Molly screamed, digging into her chest cavity with her bare hands. She continued to call out to Sherlock as she dug deeper, eventually pulling out her own beating, battered heart. The glass disappeared and the relief on his face was apparent. She held out her heart to him, cracked from the grief and heartache. "It isn't what it used to be; it's so broken. What would you even do with it anyways?"

Sherlock held her hands that still held her heart. "My darling, I would mend it together again."

Molly woke in a cold sweat, the meaning of her nightmares now obvious, but she was visibly shaken by the experience. Something needed to be done.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was awoken to the frantic knocks at his door. He didn't bother with a dressing gown, walking to the door in only his tartan pajama pants. On the other side was Molly, her eyes red and raw from crying—not unlike his own—and still in her own sleep clothes.

"Molly, what—" Not another word came out when she threw her arms around him, and she rested her cheek against the warmth of his skin. Sherlock held her close with one arm, shutting the door with the other. He could feel tears rolling off of her, and he stroked her hair with a gentle touch.

"I love you," she whispered hoarsely. "Don't ever leave me." Molly pressed her lips ever so softly to his chest, lingering for what felt like hours. "I'm scared, Sherlock."

"Of what, Molly?" he asked, his fingers now running up and down her back.

"Losing you," she admitted. "I can't lose you—not to drugs, not to criminals—I need you to take care of yourself when I can't."

His heart ached for her. Reluctantly, he released her, leading her to the sofa. His nightmare re-entered his mind. "I know I've hurt you so much in the past," he told her. "I hate myself for it. But, I promise to not be so reckless on my cases, Molly. I used to get a thrill from it, but I found a better thrill in loving you." Sherlock took her hands in his and he pressed kisses to each one. "As for the drugs, I'm through with them. I've been in a rehabilitation program for weeks now of my own accord."

Keeping a hold of her hands, Sherlock squeezed them affectionately as he leaned closer, his forehead now resting against hers. "I love you, Molly Hooper. I know your heart is broken, but I will mend it for you." _I will love her to ruins. _The words echoed in his mind, but he ignored them. His lips caressed hers, his tongue dancing with hers. The soft moans escaping him had Molly nuzzling her nose against his. She could feel her pain lessen as he kissed her tenderly; she felt she would cry tears from the happiness welling up inside her.

His lips traveled all the way down to the crook of her neck, and back up to the sensitive area below her ear. "Let me take care of you," he whispered. After placing a kiss to her temple, Sherlock brought her up onto his lap, and held her close. Molly's arms were around his neck, her head resting on his shoulder. They remained like that for a while in comfortable silence until Sherlock realised that Molly had fallen asleep. He carried her to his bed, setting her down carefully as to not wake her. Slipping in the bed himself, Sherlock held onto her from behind, only falling asleep after pressing one last kiss to her shoulder.

* * *

When Molly woke early in the morning, she adjusted her eyes to find she wasn't at her flat. She was at Sherlock's, and in his bed, no less. In fact, she had been sleeping with her head on his chest. She lifted her head to find he was awake, his eyes lighting up when she met them with her own. Everything came back to her from the night before—the dinner party, the kiss that nearly ended them, taking a cab in her pyjamas at two in the morning after that horrid nightmare, and the kiss that brought them closer together.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock's voice brought her back to the present. He was brushing his fingers through her hair gently, concern for her written plainly on his face.

Molly thought a moment as she hovered above him. Despite the headache—probably from all the crying last night—she felt fine. Her heart was no longer aching, and she felt as if a huge weight had lifted from her shoulders. Overall, she felt blissful. "So very happy," she answered him. "You make me very happy."

He smiled sweetly at her; his eyes flickered to her lips that were so close he could hardly contain himself. The small gasp of surprise that left her mouth as he kissed her brought him joy. Everything about this woman in his arms did. He slid his hands from her hair, down to her back, pressing their bodies closer together. Their lips met again and again as if their lives depended on it, as if they were breathing life into one another.

Her lips left his, trailing kissed down his neck. Sherlock groaned at the newfound contact. Molly reveled in his reaction. A whimper was elicited from deep within her as Sherlock turned the tables, flipping them over, and began peppering kisses below her ear and down her neck. He brought their mouths together again, taking her bottom lip gently between his teeth, leaving Molly breathless. Their hearts were aching again, but in the best way. It was as if the love they had for each other could barely be contained by the organ beating in their chest.

Molly giggled as she felt Sherlock's fingers trace her side. Amused at finding where she was ticklish, he broke their kiss, purposefully tickling her sides, causing her to scream and giggle until she swatted his hands away. "No fair," she laughed.

"I believe all is fair in love and war, darling," he quipped, lying beside her, their hands just barely touching.

She rolled her eyes playfully, taking his hand in hers. Something that he said to her last night crossed her mind. "I don't want you believing you're not good for me, Sherlock."

The abrupt change in her mood told him to listen to her words closely.

"You said it as if it was an inevitable truth, but it's not," she continued, turning over on her side to face him fully. "The culmination of the guilt you felt is what's telling you that. It isn't true." Molly brushed his curls back with her nimble fingers. "Don't you see? It was never about trusting you with my heart. I already trusted you. The issue was that I was scared of giving up my heart completely for fear of losing you."

Sherlock visibly relaxed, relief crossing his features. He had truly thought his presence in her life was toxic, sucking the life out of her. Now, here in his bed, he could see it was the opposite. She was practically glowing—vivacious, even. In fact, it was clear to him that keeping their distance from one another was the culprit of their pain. "So, I'm…not unworthy of your love?"

"Far from it, darling," she smiled, reassuring him. "You are so deserving of my heart."

"How can you love me if I don't even like myself?" he asked. This haunted him from last night's adventure into his psyche. "How can you forgive me for all that I've done?"

Molly closed her eyes as to keep the tears filling her up at bay. She took her bottom lip between her teeth as she struggled to speak. "Sherlock," she spoke his name like a prayer. "You aren't a bad man. You've struggled with bad things, but that doesn't mean you should hate yourself for it. Look how far you've come. I love the man beneath the façade—the one who is kind and loving. The one who shoots at a wall when he's frustrated or hurting." She laughed at that. "I love your flaws and the scars that you bear. You need to forgive yourself, Sherlock. Whether you like it or not, you're only human."

"But—"

"No," Molly spoke firmly. "You don't get to argue this. Do you want to know something? I have flaws too regardless if you see it or not." She carded her fingers through his hair. "There were a few times I hated myself in the past two years. I felt I should have waited for your return instead of going out and getting myself engaged. When you did return, and we had that lovely day together, I knew then how you felt, though I hadn't a clue how deep those feelings ran. But I felt so guilty, I hid my ring from you as best as I could. Tom was the other man in that situation. I felt I had been unfaithful to you, and we hadn't even been together. How silly is that?"

Sherlock laughed softly. "Quite," was his quiet reply.

"I hated myself for not going after you when you left the wedding, which only added to the loneliness you so clearly felt. I eventually hated that I slapped you, and then realised you only allowed me to do so because you felt you deserved it." Molly seemed to have lost against the tears as they slid down her cheeks. "And I hate that I have hurt you so much since the phone call. I hate that I told you I didn't mean it, and that I lied to you at all." She was crying again, and Sherlock somehow felt it was his fault, though he knew it wasn't.

"Molly," Sherlock spoke in a reassuring tone. "Darling, it's okay." He sat up, bringing her small form against him, holding her as she cried for the second time in less than twelve hours. "I didn't realise you felt there was so much you had done wrong, but I forgive it all." And just like that, Sherlock understood how she forgave all he had done. His heart felt even lighter than it had last night.

"We're a couple of right messes aren't we?" Molly suddenly laughed, and Sherlock laughed with her. "God, look at us," she added, wiping her tears with her hands. He was doing the same, their laughter finally dying down.

"We needed this," Sherlock realised.

"We really did," she agreed. "But now we need to put all of our focus on this case." Her voice was serious. "How does the victim of the first murder connect to Blackwood as the intended second victim?"

Sherlock just stared at her, his mouth agape. Just like that, Molly was getting right down to business. Nobody understood him the way she did, and God, did he love her.

"Sherlock." She brought him out of his thoughts. "Are you going to just stare at me all day, or are we going to catch a killer?"

"Right," he replied, getting up out of bed. "We need to figure out what Blackwood has in common with the previous victim."

"Wouldn't Mycroft know?" Molly asked. "I mean, he knew both of them, and worked with them for years."

Sherlock considered this. "I have to see him about last night anyways. It wouldn't hurt to ask."

Both Sherlock's and Molly's mobiles started ringing. They answered their phones, speaking quietly so the other could hear. Turning to each other, they spoke in unison. "Blackwood's been murdered."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Sherlock and Molly had a real conversation about their fears, and those nightmares were not pretty at all. Don't worry, Anderson will be coming into play next chapter, and you'll find out what the victims have in common. We still have a case to solve, after all!


	7. Did You Miss Me?

Blackwood had been found on the street, his head bashed in from a fit of rage. Reporters were scouring the place, wanting to get a peek at the high profile victim, but they were forced to stand behind the police tape. This kind of exposure was exactly what Mycroft didn't want happening. But what can you do when the murderer left the victim on the sidewalk for anyone to find?

Philip Anderson was taking photos of the victim when a cab arrived on the scene. He paused to see who it was, surprised to find Sherlock and Molly arriving together. And—oh my God—Sherlock's hand was on the small of her back in a simple, affectionate gesture. Molly no longer looked as if she were falling to pieces. In fact, she almost looked…happy. Very happy.

The reporters went wild.

"Mister Holmes, how is this case connected to the previous victim?"

"Who's that woman you've arrived with?"

"Is that your girlfriend?"

"What is she doing at a crime scene?"

Sherlock and Molly ignored their incessant questions, focusing on the work before them. Greg and Anderson shared a knowing look as the two rattled off possibilities and factual evidence to one another. The way they moved around each other to observe different areas almost looked like a graceful dance.

"I thought you said they had a fight last night," Greg spoke in a low voice.

"They did," Anderson confirmed. "They must have worked it all out. If they arrived together, they must have spent the night together, and—ohhhh! Sherlolly is real!"

"We can hear you, you know," Sherlock remarked. Molly gave a short laugh. The reporters must have heard too, because the nickname spread like wildfire amongst them. They were beginning to get on Sherlock's last nerve. He was on the verge of snapping at them until Molly diverted his attention.

"Sherlock, look at this," she told him. Her gloved hand traced the letters crudely carved into his chest. "U.O Me…this wouldn't have any connection to Moriarty's I.O.U thing would it?"

A look of abhorrence crossed his face. "Why?" he muttered. "Why does everything seem to lead back to _him_." Though he was usually able to keep his emotions in check, Sherlock looked as if he were about to have an outburst. Instead of doing so, he began to walk away.

"Darling—" Molly reached out to him.

"Whoever this is, they're out for revenge," Sherlock informed them. "Everyone associated with me is in danger, and that includes you, Molly."

"Sherlock," she spoke low, but firmly. Taking hold of his arm, she walked him a few feet away, though some spectators, including Lestrade and Anderson, could still see them. Molly was talking him down from his frustration and panic. People continued to snap photos whilst Anderson and Greg looked on. And then Molly had his face in her hands, their foreheads leaning together. With bated breath, everyone watched as Sherlock pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Well, I'll be damned," Greg remarked, not quite believing what he saw.

Anderson's eyes went wide, his jaw dropping. He wished he had popcorn. Wait…his hand dug through his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a small bag of caramel corn. "See? I told you! Did I not tell you?" he wore a very smug smile. "Operation Sherlolly is a success! Case closed!"

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. He wondered if Anderson's obsession would die down now that the truth was out in the open. When he looked over at Philip, he had to do a double take. "Wait…where did you get popcorn?"

"Alright," Sherlock's baritone boomed as he walked toward Lestrade with Molly. "Here's what's going to happen. Don't answer anybody's questions. Molly will head to the hospital with you. No one else is to do the autopsy but her."

"And where exactly are you going?" Greg asked.

"It seems I should pay a visit to my brother—this is more serious than I anticipated."

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was getting impatient. The pressure to catch this high profile murderer was daunting. He pinched the bridge of his nose, waiting for news of any kind. Something must have been found—anything. But, then again, there was one connecting factor…

"Mister Holmes?" Anthea stuck her head through the door of his office.

His eyes lit up at the sight of her. "Yes, what is it? Has the murderer been caught?"

Anthea bit her lip. "Well…not yet, but there has been a different sort of development." She walked toward his desk, and handed him her mobile.

Mycroft knit his brows as he looked through the photos. "It seems my brother and Miss Hooper have worked things out then."

"Yes, sir, they're actually the top news story right now. 'Sherolly,' they're calling them," Anthea informed him.

"Cute," he replied dryly. "At least he'll no longer be lonely."

Feeling brave, Anthea met his eyes with hers. "You don't have to be lonely either…_sir_." She watched his face soften at her remark. With a warm smile, she turned to leave, finding Sherlock standing in the doorway. He had heard their exchange.

"Anthea," he greeted her with a nod, moving aside so she could leave. He then turned to Mycroft. "She has a point, you know."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, the iceman façade returning. "Spare me." A moment passed between them. "Sherlolly?"

"Anderson started it," Sherlock replied with a quirk of his lips.

"Yes, very amusing, brother mine," Mycroft remarked. "Now, what have you found on Blackwood's person?"

"Before I tell you, I need to know if there was a connection between the two victims." Sherlock was all business now. "Specifically, I need to know if they were involved with Moriarty in any way before his death."

Mycroft slowly leaned back in his chair in surprise. "They paid him to not hurt their families, and in return, they were to turn a blind eye to his crimes." He took a sip of his tea. "Naturally, I did not approve of such an arrangement, but I let it be. Eventually, the pair of them ignored his wishes and had two of his accomplices arrested after having their families hidden away in safe houses."

"'U O Me' was carved into Blackwood's flesh. I believe it was a message for me," Sherlock explained. "Whoever this is wants revenge—they want to avenge Moriarty even though he killed himself. I can't help but think of what Eurus spoke of."

"Moriarty's brother—the stationmaster," Mycroft realised.

"Colonel James Moriarty," Sherlock stated. "Their parents were obviously fond of the name." His eyes locked onto his brother's in a fit of urgency. "We need to increase the security detail on Molly. Even you and I are in danger."

"Brother mine, as much as I would prefer to, I simply can't give Miss Hooper any more protection than what she has. Someone has gone above my head to ensure government members have around the clock security, because they believe it to be a conspiracy against us," Mycroft explained. "It's out of my hands, Sherlock. You'll have to find another way."

Sherlock backed away in frustration. "She needs to be looked after when I'm not with her, it's—" He had an idea. "Or I can be with her most of the time. She could stay with me." Granted, it was convenient, but Sherlock found more reasons than just her protection to have her live with him. He simply wanted her there.

"You just got the girl, brother, don't drive her away so quickly," Mycroft quipped.

As Sherlock headed out the door, he replied, "Don't keep Anthea waiting—she may not wait around for you forever."

Mycroft Holmes was speechless for once.

* * *

After snapping off her gloves, Molly tossed them in the bin. She hadn't found anything more unusual from Blackwood's autopsy, but her gut feeling told her something bad was going to happen. Hopefully, Sherlock was having more luck on his end.

"Anything you need, Molly?" Anderson asked, poking his head in through the doors. "Greg and I are headed back to the station since there's been nothing new to report."

"Thank you," she told him.

Anderson stepped fully inside the morgue. "For what…exactly?"

"I know you meddled with our personal lives—mine and Sherlock's. Normally, I would have been opposed to it, but you helped us. Well, you helped me with each push," Molly explained. "So, thank you."

A sense of pride swelled up inside him. "It was nothing," he replied sheepishly.

"No, I think in this case, a thank you is well-deserved…even from me," Sherlock suddenly spoke.

This had Anderson speechless. He quickly left the room with a nod to them, unsure of what to do with himself. He had helped them get together. It was an honor to have done so.

Back in the morgue, Molly smirked, her eyes sparkling. "Sherlock Holmes thanking Philip Anderson without so much as a snide remark? Hell must have frozen over."

"Not quite," his tone was serious now. "Molly, we need to pack your things."

"What? Why?" she asked.

"Moriarty's brother is behind all this—he's taking revenge on those who ever did his brother wrong," Sherlock explained. "If I remember correctly, not only did you help with faking my death, but you broke up with him too."

"Why would that last one factor in? He was only using me to get close to you," Molly pointed out.

Sherlock sighed. "I have to assume he had a real interest in you, Molly. He did use you to get closer to me, but even after the meeting he wanted, he stayed with you until you broke things off."

"I sure know how pick 'em," Molly muttered.

"Now, hold on a minute," Sherlock protested.

"Not you, Sherlock," she laughed. "I couldn't have chosen anyone better to give my heart to."

He wasn't sure he agreed with that sentiment, but it warmed him to know she thought so.

"How do you feel about staying with me at Baker Street until we can catch Moriarty?" Sherlock asked. "If not, I'll stay with you. Either way, I need to be there to protect you. Mycroft is unable to improve the security detail you already have."

"I'd love to stay with you," Molly smiled. "Let me finish up here, and we'll go back to mine and pack my things."

* * *

**Author's Note:** In case any of y'all haven't read the original stories, Colonel James Moriarty is actually the name of Moriarty's brother. Eurus only briefly mentioned him in TFP. I've been struggling a lot with this chapter, cause I've been concerned with how it will be received. It has been beta-read, and my beta didn't find anything wrong, but I still feel as though something isn't quite right here. Maybe I'm dragging it out too long? I have no idea. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it!


	8. Shot in the Dark

Sherlock was pacing back and forth almost manically. The wall behind the sofa was covered with crime scene photos, maps, and newspaper clippings. Molly even saw her own photo up there along with one awkward photo of the Holmes brothers. She was sitting in his chair by the fire, nursing a cup of chai and a book in her hand. Despite how much she tried, though, Molly simply couldn't keep her attention on the story, having reread the last paragraph three times to make sense of it. A week had passed since the identity of the murderer was now known, and Sherlock had been working nonstop to track him down.

Molly shut her book closed loudly, a sight escaping her lips. "Sherlock, why don't you take a moment away from the case, and actually eat something?"

"It'll only slow me down—we need to catch Moriarty. He's not as clever as his deranged brother, which is why he's been laying low. Too much activity and he's sure to be found," Sherlock explained. He felt exhausted. The case was going nowhere. Feeling a bit lightheaded, he supposed Molly was right about him needing more sustenance—he hardly ate a morsel this past week.

"Your homeless network is scouring London for the man. Until he comes out from the shadows again, there isn't much else to be done," Molly told him. She stood up, leaving her now-empty cup and book on the table, and closed the distance between them. "Come to bed with me, Sherlock. You need some rest…we both do." She was due to work a double shift starting bright and early in the morning.

He frowned in confusion. "I thought you wanted me to eat something?"

"I do, but if it's between eating and sleeping, then at least get some rest if nothing else," she replied, almost pleading. "What we need to do is wait until we get a tip from someone before he strikes again."

"Order takeaway and eat it in bed?" he suggested.

"Best idea you've had all day," she agreed.

* * *

"Mmm," Molly remarked, happily swallowing the first bit of chow mein she ate from the carton, chopsticks in hand. "This was a great idea."

Sherlock nodded in agreement as he ate, listening closely to the program on the small telly that now sat in his room. It was Molly's, brought over from her flat. She was going to leave it, but Sherlock knew how she loved falling asleep to a favourite program sometimes, so he insisted they bring it along. They were watching an American show that could only be described as a conspiracy theorist's wet dream. Despite the absurdity of the show, Sherlock found that he enjoyed it quite a bit.

_"Do you think I'm spooky?" _The male protagonist—Mulder—asked Scully.

"We should do this," Sherlock told her.

"Do what? Become FBI agents? Join the MI6?" Molly laughed.

"No—go out on the road, solving mysteries," he explained.

"Isn't that a bit Scooby Doo for you?" she asked, stuffing more chow mein in her mouth.

Sherlock smirked in amusement. "And for once, I got that reference." He had loved the show as a child. It taught him that the real monsters were only human, and fed his compulsion to solve crimes.

They finished their food in companionable silence. When the episode finished, Molly reached out for her fortune cookie. She broke it open, her eyes taking in the words, a gasp escaping her lips. "Sherlock, open yours."

"Molly, I don't—" His eyes widened when he read hers.

_You'll be next._

He scrambled to open his, forcefully breaking it apart. His fortune bore the words that the consulting criminal had spoken to him years ago.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was having a fitful sleep. He felt as though something was wrong, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was. This brother of Moriarty's that bore the same name—it was alarming. He was seeking revenge for his brother who he felt had died in vain all because Sherlock Holmes still lived. They were all targets supposedly, but it had been too quiet lately. Colonel Moriarty had been keeping a low profile, and rightly so.

His eyes fluttered closed in an attempt to fall asleep, and it worked for a bit until his mobile rang. Mycroft shot right up, noticing it was Anthea calling him. She never called him. He answered it, speaking her name in an uncharacteristically frantic manner. There was no direct reply, but he could hear her struggling, followed by a shatter of glass. She was fighting back whoever was attacking her. Mycroft didn't wait another moment; he threw on the simplest outfit and was out the door in moments. The last thing he heard before the phone call ended was a gun shot.

* * *

Philip Anderson studied the wall of connections and theories he had concocted. It wasn't dissimilar to the one he created whilst Sherlock was gone. What he had found out so far was that Colonel James Moriarty was a stationmaster up until three years ago when he had a psychotic break. It obviously runs in the family. He's been taking out anyone who ever betrayed his brother. In Sherlock's case, it wasn't betrayal, but the fact that he was still breathing meant that Jim Moriarty died in vain.

If only he could discover where the stationmaster was hiding out, he'd have a lead for Sherlock to follow. He had a theory, but first, Anderson needed to find out the specifics from an expert. Who was that fellow that Sherlock and Molly spoke with for a case a while back? Philip wracked his brain, searching for the answer, and then it hit him. He looked up the number, dialing it into his mobile. "Ah, Mr. Shilcott, I have a couple questions for you."

* * *

When Mycroft arrived at Anthea's home—a cosy little townhouse—he noted that there were no lights on from the windows he could see. The door had been left ajar, and he crept inside, making sure not to hit any of the creaky floorboards. He had memorised them from the many times he had been over here, needing a reprieve from reality. Just then, he realised that it wasn't much different than Sherlock using Molly's flat as a bolthole. And just when he could possibly stumble across her lifeless form, Mycroft finally admitted the truth to himself: he loved her.

_Please don't be dead_, he repeated in his head, silently mouthing the words. Little by little, he moved quietly through the house, his hand hovering above the pistol he never used, sitting in its holster that was clipped to his jeans. Soft sobs grew louder as he approached her bedroom door on the second floor, a dim light spilling out into the hall. He pushed it open slowly, and found Anthea, unharmed, crouched beside her bed. Despite the fact she had worked for him for years—almost fifteen now—Anthea had never been caught in the crossfire of a serial killer.

"Mycroft," she called out in a broken whisper as the elder Holmes knelt down in front of her. "You need to be careful; he's still in the house."

"I need to get you out of here," he insisted. "I didn't see anyone, but that doesn't mean he's not waiting around." Mycroft attempted to scoop her up in his arms, but all was a blur what with Anthea screaming. A sharp pain ripped through him—well, not quite all the way through—and was that blood? He slumped forward, heavy footfalls running down the stairs and out the door most likely. The last thing he remembered was the warmth of Anthea's tears splashing onto his skin.

* * *

_"Oh God…"_

_"Less than an inch away!"_

_"…a lot of pain when he wakes up."_

_"Don't wait a moment longer."_

_"Mycroft? Please wake up, darling."_

Bright florescent lights blurred then focused into view. Standing by the door was Sherlock in full crime solving attire sans Belstaff, and Molly only in her sleep attire, though his brother had thrown his coat over the pathologist's shoulders to keep her warm. He felt a smoothness running over the back of his right hand, and turned to see the source of it. Anthea sat beside his bed, both of her hands holding his, her thumbs running across the back of it. Her face was blotched and swollen from crying, tears still running down her cheeks.

"Hey you," she managed to choke out. "I thought you were lost to us."

Mycroft finally remembered. "I was shot."

"You were," Sherlock's voice cut through the tension. "The bullet was lodged within you, nearly missing your heart."

"It was less than an inch away," Molly added. "You were very lucky."

Feeling his mobile vibrate, Sherlock answered it despite the name that popped up on the screen. "Anderson, what is it? There's been—" He listened closely to him, his face hardening. "I see. Good work, there may be hope for you yet."

"What?" Molly asked. "What is it?"

Mycroft and Anthea only looked on in curiosity.

"Anderson's found a lead on Moriarty—he may be hiding out in the old York Road tube station." The station had been closed for decades—ever since 1932—but that was why it was a fitting hideout for a former stationmaster. "Don't worry, brother dear, rest assured I will find him."

Molly cleared her throat. "Don't you mean 'we?'" she asked. "I'm not letting you go this alone."

"Molly, it's too—"

"Dangerous? Risky? I know, Sherlock. That's why you can't go this one alone. You need backup—I know how to fight. You and Mycroft made sure of that," she told him. "I'm not going to sit around and wait, wondering if you'll ever make it back."

Sherlock sighed in defeat. He knew she would just follow after him if they didn't go together. And then what? They'd arrive separately, and it could put her in more danger than if she accompanied him. "Fine, but we're stopping back at Baker Street first. You need a change of clothes."

Before walking out the door, Molly turned back to Anthea. "Remember what Sherlock said…don't wait a moment longer." And they were gone, off to slay a dragon, as Mycroft would say.

"What did she mean by that?" Mycroft asked.

Anthea gave him a small smile, wiping at the tears that still stained her face. "I love you, Mycroft Holmes. Don't you _dare_ scare me like that again."

A look of awe crossed his face, and though he didn't respond verbally, he lifted her hand to his lips. It was enough to let her know he felt the same.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Through sickness, a second degree burn, and school draining my creativity, I finally managed to get this chapter written. I gotta say, I never expected to have a mini Mythea storyline going, but there it is lol! I'm thinking only two more chapters left before this is finished, soooo that's exciting, but also bittersweet. Oh, and I love the X-Files, and I don't think it's absurd, but thought it would be fun to kinda see it through Sherlock's eyes.


	9. Full Circle

**Final Chapter!**

* * *

Despite being snug in her jacket and scarf, Molly couldn't fight the winter chill in the air, making her very bones tingle. She and Sherlock quietly made their way through the abandoned station, using their torches to light the way. Scotland Yard was notified that they were going in, and Lestrade had a few officers on standby in case they ran into any trouble. He had also insisted that they at least wear wires in case either of them couldn't call in. "This feels too much like a trap," Molly told him. "Something feels off."

"I agree," Sherlock replied. He had been adamant that Molly stay out of this investigation, worried for her safety, but her stubbornness won in the end. "Stay close." It was eerily quiet, save for the occasional mouse scurrying across the way. The lights above them, though quite dim, were suddenly flipped on. They flickered rapidly, an electric humming surrounded them. A flash of movement caught his eye and Sherlock held out an arm to keep Molly from getting ahead of him.

The lights continued to flicker, and from one moment to the next, a man could be seen standing at the other end of the station, his gun aimed right at them.

* * *

Anderson listened intently with Greg. Though he wasn't exactly needed there, he was the one to figure out where Colonel James Moriarty might be hiding out. They heard Sherlock tell Molly to stay close, followed by a hum of electricity.

"Must've found the lights," Anderson reasoned.

"Shhh," Greg hushed him.

_"Show yourself,"_ they heard Sherlock demand. Moriarty was there.

_"Stay right where you are, Mister Holmes,"_ he warned him. _"Come any closer, and Molly will suffer." _The deafening sound of a short circuit came through the speaker. There was a shuffling movement quickly followed by a gunshot.

Lestrade didn't waste any time, commanding everyone to storm the station. "Right now!" he ordered them. "Philip, stay here. If we need more help, it'll be up to you to contact someone."

Anderson nodded, watching as NSY officers stormed the station. He could hear voices, distant now, expressing a struggle. Another shot went off and the gun clattered to the floor.

"_Sherlock!_" Molly screamed.

_"Anderson, call for an ambulance!"_ Lestrade spoke with urgency.

After making the call, Philip ran toward the station, his eyes widened at the sight that befell him. Moriarty had been apprehended, shouting as he struggled to fight the officers. Sherlock was on the ground, blood spotting his shirt. Greg taped gauze to the wound whilst Molly cried, smoothing back Sherlock's curls. He was surprisingly still conscious, though he looked as if he might pass out at any moment.

"Don't cry, darling." Sherlock's voice strained. "It'll be alright." He closed his eyes briefly when Molly's lips touched his forehead.

"Don't you dare leave me, Sherlock," she warned him with her broken voice. "Please. I can't lose you…not now…not after everything we've—" Her cries broke through, rendering her unable to speak coherently.

Anderson was on the verge of tears himself until he noticed the blood on Molly's shoulder. He approached her from the side quickly. "Molly, you've been shot."

She looked up at him with her red, puffy eyes, her brows knitting together in confusion. "What? No, I haven't, I—"

"S'your shoulder," Sherlock pointed out, his speech slightly slurred.

When Molly glanced down at her right shoulder, sure enough, there was a hole where the bullet went through.

"Looks like it came straight through. It didn't hit any veins, which is good news," Anderson remarked. "You still need it looked at and bandaged."

Sirens wailed in the night, just in time to take Sherlock and Molly to the hospital. When they reached their destination, a nurse was attempting to drag her away from following Sherlock. "Don't worry about me—he needs surgery as soon as possible," she pleaded. "Just take care of him, please."

"You need that shoulder looked at, regardless of Sherlock's condition, Molly." Anderson took her hand as a caring gesture. "He would want you to get that taken care of. I'll make sure to keep an eye on his surgery. Go take care of yourself."

This calmed her down enough to realise he was talking sense. The nurse, thankful for Anderson's interference, led her off to get examined, but all the while, Molly worried for Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock's body ached. He groggily opened his eyes, the hospital room all a blur. "Molly," his hoarse voice called out. Another hand squeezed his own, a softer one. He turned to his left to find Molly sitting beside him.

"Hi," she spoke softly, giving him a watery smile. "How're you feeling?"

He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb as he took note of her bandaged shoulder. "I've been better." He paused a moment. "How's your shoulder?"

A small laugh of disbelief slipped from her mouth. "I'll live." Molly's composure quickly fell apart, tears flowing freely. "You died on the table in the operating room…twice. Sherlock, I—"

"I know," he interrupted, reaching to stroke her cheek. "I'm sorry. I promised you that I'd be careful, and I couldn't even uphold it. And you got caught in the crossfire too." His breath released shakily. "It's too dangerous."

Molly shook her head. "You did everything. This is what you do for a living, Sherlock. Yes, I am constantly terrified that one day you won't come home, but I'm not ignorant to the fact that what you do is important. Don't allow my fears to keep you from doing what you love."

"I love you," Sherlock spoke quietly, no more than a whisper. His thumb slid across her face, wiping the tears away. "It'll be alright."

"You always say that," she pointed out.

"And I always mean it."

* * *

Molly never left Sherlock's side at the hospital. Although she had been cleared to go home, Sherlock had to stay a bit longer. The day he was officially released was enough cause for celebration. Sitting in the back of a cab, neither of them expected to be so excited to see Baker Street again. There was a crowd of reporters outside the building, along with photographers, their cameras flashing like crazy. Anderson could be heard as he projected his voice to tell everyone to give Sherlock and Molly their privacy. A reporter had asked if he was close with 'Sherlolly,' but he refused to comment. He managed to clear a path for the two to come through, and Sherlock held Molly close to his side as they made their way inside.

Mrs. Hudson had greeted them, welcoming them back from recovery at the hospital. When she disappeared inside her flat, Sherlock pulled Anderson aside. "I understand that there is no way to keep the press out of our business," he acknowledged, gesturing to Molly and himself. "You appear to do a great job keeping them at bay. If anything false gets published, I'll leave it up to you to set the record straight. If you aren't sure about something, let one of us know."

Anderson was surprised. "You trust me to do that?"

"Well, you have been our biggest supporter throughout the entire ordeal," Molly pointed out. "You continuously pushed us to move past what happened at Sherrinford."

"Exactly," Sherlock remarked. "I suppose you aren't all that useless."

"I think you've grown fond of me," Anderson teased.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I assure you that is not the case. Now, go on your way. We're exhausted."

Anderson exited, finding that most of the press had left already. Despite Sherlock's previous statement, Philip knew the detective had grown at least a little bit fond of him. It was odd. Then again, Anderson hadn't been Sherlock's biggest fan in the beginning either, but he liked to think a renewed sense of respect and understanding now resided between them. The past few months had been a whirlwind for him. Perhaps he could convince John Watson to write about it. He smiled to himself, the perfect title coming to mind. "The Adventure of Philip Anderson."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hate how long this took, but for the past few weeks, I've been miserable due to my creative writing instructor. Nothing was good enough for her, and it killed my love for writing for a while, but I think I'm finally back on my feet. For a final chapter, this feels a bit weird to me, but I hope y'all enjoyed it anyways!


End file.
